


P. granatum

by roughmagic



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Complete, Daddy Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Other, the Reader Character isn't underage. Winston is just old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-08 18:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughmagic/pseuds/roughmagic
Summary: The marker sits on the table between you, and you think Winston wouldn’t mind if you looked at it. If you opened it up, saw his bloody thumbprint for yourself, probably dark with age now. One day, you suppose, yours will join it.Reader/Winston





	1. MYRTALES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i— OOP

Your father’s wasn’t the first funeral you had seen, but it was the first you had attended personally. 

It’s a beautiful day, which seems out of place, and you’ve already had to tamp down on smiles, feeling the breeze and hearing the birds. It would look out of place, and you’ve already learned how to stammer through thank yous whenever an old friend of his comes up to offer condolences.

No one wants to hear you explain how it’s fine, really. His death, like everyone else in the field, had been headed his way for a long time. He had prepared for it, made arrangements, and left nothing up to chance, as he always had.

The first time someone had tried to talk to you about it, you’d made the mistake of telling the truth: he was your father, but he had always been more of a handler. It feels as though a hardass employer has passed, and you’re mostly anxious about job security.

All the memories of your father seem to blur together as his coffin is lowered into the earth, blending together to form one impression of a distant man who had not loved you, gone to extreme lengths to make you the best assassin you could be, and had not taught you how to dress for a funeral. Nobody else was wearing combat boots.

The man who approaches you after the ceremony is over and the thin crowd has dispersed is certainly dressed better, all sharp angles and a handsome profile behind delicate glasses. He introduces himself as concierge of the New York Continental, and says in the polite way that you need to come with him, so you do.

The hotel is grand beyond anything you’ve ever been in—and you’ve seen some fancy spots through your rifle scope. Charon, the concierge, is apparently too nice to tell you to stop staring, simply leading you through marble hallway after marble hallway, finally depositing you in a sound-proofed meeting room.

Your father had told you the rules of the Continental, so you don’t think you’re here to be murdered. There’s a knife down your boot and you’ve done more with less, but the odds are not great.

On the meeting room’s expansive oak table, there are some documents, and no one around to tell you not to read them. Something odd happens in your heart when you read the first few lines, seeing your father’s brusque way of writing, all short sentences and flat periods.

It looks like his will, but you don’t get farther than that before the door opens, and Charon returns with another well-dressed man in tow, and you stand up reflexively. 

Like Charon, Winston is very polite and very handsome in the way of a carved statue, and he’s even brought a huge ledger with him to show you the proof of the will. Of the marker. 

The marker sits on the table between you, and you think Winston wouldn’t mind if you looked at it. If you opened it up, saw his bloody thumbprint for yourself, probably dark with age now. One day, you suppose, yours will join it. 

You don’t need to look. You hear him explain the deal, the will, your father’s last and most important wish. The terms of the marker that Winston is bound by, that _you_ are now bound by. You’re stuck staring at the oak tabletop when Winston asks you to repeat it back to him, as if he thinks you might have zoned out or be in some kind of shock.

“I understand.” You can only look directly at him briefly. “The marker forces you to let me stay here, six months.”

“Of every year,” Winston corrects gently, and that does make your head spin a little. But he’d given you a task.

“Of every year.” The hard part is next. “It doesn’t sound like I’m supposed to leave.”

You watch the glint of Winston’s cufflinks as he shuffles the papers unnecessarily, even runs a hand over his face. He looks as tired as he sounds. “I can only imagine your father wanted to know you had a safe haven after his death. In my time with him he was always very prepared—hence why I came to him with a marker to begin with.”

“It’s just asset protection.” You’ve helped him inventory safe houses and stashes before. Preparedness. That’s a bit of an understatement. “I’m sorry he’s making you act as a bank. Storing me like this.”

“The Continental is a step or two above a bank vault, my dear.”

“I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to make it sound—”

“I know. Let me offer my assurances as manager that we’ll do everything possible to make you comfortable here.” You can’t meet his eyes, but you can watch his hands lace together on the table. “Now, your father’s affairs are settled. Where should we look for your things?”

You look at Charon for help, only to find him writing on a notepad. “Things?”

“Personal effects.” Winston’s eyebrows quirk a little. “Staying with the Continental can feel like home, if you allow us to try.”

“I don’t have anything like that.” Your father’s armories were everywhere, and he kept a running inventory like a library. You returned everything you used and placed requests for replacements if needed. He didn’t want you walking around armed—the knife was the first and last Christmas present, and as such you earned the right to keep it.

Home is the road. Home is the next sniping point you’re posted at. Home is cleaning your weapons in the back of a van. Home is the wilderness, which is sounding increasingly pleasant. Most of your young adult life had been spent alone in the wilds and maybe it’s a sign of grief that you want to return to it now.

“Well. We’ll play it by ear, then, shall we?” Winston parts his hands and Charon stands up. “Charon will give you a tour, find you a room to your liking. All the amenities and services of the Continental are open to you, of course, backed by your father’s accounts.”

Of course. Your face feels hot. “Thank you.”

Winston leaves in a different direction than you and Charon, and you watch him go. It was hard to imagine him working with your father, but it seemed like you could stay out of his way and off his nerves pretty easily.

The tour is brief, mercifully. You’re shown the kitchens, introduced to some of the staff, guided to the entrance of the Lounge, and then shown to your room, which has to be a mistake.

“It is not to your liking?” Charon asks, watching you stammer at the threshold looking in.

“It’s—it’s just big. And it’s very nice, it’s too nice, I really don’t need all this.” Was there a storage closet you could hole up in? In this place they’ve probably got marble floors and banisters.

“This is our most modest suite. As it happens, we are experiencing high occupancy here in New York, so I’m afraid I cannot offer you anything else.”

“Oh, no! No, I don’t want something else, I’m sorry, this is—it’s a lot, you know?”

Charon makes a face like he’s too nice to laugh, and merely gestures you into the room. “Should you need anything, I am available at the lobby, and our staff has been alerted to your presence. I do hope you will not hesitate to ask for whatever you might need.”

“Sure. Okay. Thank you.”

Selfishly, you spend the next day just in the room, figuring out the knobs for hot and cold water in the shower, taking a very long bath, washing your clothes in the sink and hanging them up to dry, figuring out you’re more comfortable on the floor than the bed. The tap water is city water, full of fluoride, but you can drink it without any problems. Food is the next obstacle—you’ll probably have to ask someone for something.

The view of New York outside the huge windows makes you wish you had a scope for people watching. There’s something alluring about the idea of wasting away watching the tides of people come and go, forgetting your own life.

As the sun sets, the phone rings and Charon lets you know that management has requested your presence in the Lounge tonight, if you would be so inclined?

Well, at least you washed your clothes. They’re just surplus pants and a turtleneck, and your boots feel out of place on the soft carpet. There’s a big mirror in the room that you can’t avoid, and you try to do something with your hair, but it looks ridiculous. You just need to show up.

On your way through the kitchens, there’s a crate of raw fruits and veggies standing unattended and you give in to temptation, taking an apple and a potato and ducking into a quiet corner. It’s the best apple you’ve ever had, and even the chunks of raw potato are a relief after nothing for so long.

The door to the Lounge swings open for you without a coin, and you wish you’d just stolen more food and run back to your room. It’s a busy space—a live band, an active bar, clients at tables and booths, and you have no idea where to start.

“Hey.” The bartender waves you over and you go quickly, relieved to be doing anything other than standing and gawping. She smiles and you instinctively return it, and she laughs like it’s surprising. “Aha, okay, you’re definitely the new guest. I’m Addy, welcome to the Lounge. Winston gave us a heads up about you, so don’t worry about the tab. If you need any help, just ask. How are you doing? Questions?”

“A bunch, but I’ll figure it out. Thank you, though, it’s nice of you to look out for me.”

“No problem.” Addy relaxes a notch. “Everyone has a first time at the Continental.” She busies herself with making a drink and you slide onto a bar stool, aware of the eyes on your back and how unarmed you are.

“You looked like you could start out slow,” She slides a cocktail across the bar to you. It smells strongly of ginger, and you can see a chunk of lime struggling underneath the ice. “What do you normally drink?”

There was always clear liquor available in a pinch, but it was more for cleaning wounds or knocking yourself out fast if there was bad pain. “Oh, you know. Just regular stuff.”

“Uh-huh.”

“This is good, though! Thank you.” The ice helps with the warmth of the ginger, and whatever else is washing around hot in your throat.

Addy leans and points. “See that booth in the back? Camp out there, no one will bother you.”

“Why?”

“It’s Winston’s spot.”

“Won’t— won’t he—I don’t want to bother him—”

“Go!" 

She’s got your number: a direct command, even in a friendly tone, is more persuasive than reason when you’re as anxious as this.

Sliding between tables and conversations, you keep your drink close to your chest and your eyes down, avoiding engagement but not dodging the occasional curious glance. The booth feels safe in comparison, able to put your back to a wall.

No one else in the room seems half as nervous as you, enjoying the band and drinking easily. Elegantly. Your clothes, easily the best you own, are a whole tax bracket below everyone else. If you could hide under the table, you would. People-watch at the level of shins and shoes.

You don’t want Addy’s nice drink to go to waste, so you try to keep up with the melting ice. There’s a newspaper at the booth and you don’t want to unfold it, so you sit and puzzle silently at the crossword.

“Ah, I see Addy’s given you the official welcome, then.” Winston appears almost out of nowhere, and you scramble to the other side of the booth, startled and embarrassed. “And how are you settling in, my dear?”

“It’s very beautiful here, everyone has been kind.” When is it appropriate for you to run from a conversation? What’s appropriate for you to even offer to a conversation? “How are you?”

Winston puts on a pair of reading glasses, pinning you like a butterfly with an amused look. “Much improved for your company.”

You don’t know how to respond, so you sip your drink and radiate nervous energy. Winston leaves you be, drawing a fountain pen from an inner coat pocket, making the motion pointedly slow as if he caught you tensing, and sets in on the crossword.

The band’s drums snap out loud in a punctuation of the music you hadn’t been following, and you force yourself not to bounce your knee or tap your fingers. Six months. Six months of civilization. 

“Another word for a gold bar?” Winston asks, idly.

“Ingot.” You worry the edge of the coaster under your drink with your fingernails. Across the room there’s a man with a sidearm very obviously visible under his jacket.

“Prevailed, three spaces.”

“Won.” A woman laughs and your head snaps around to track the noise.

“Zoning board issues, nine—”

“Variances.” There’s only one exit that you can see—a champagne cork pops at another table and you rattle the ice in your drink as you jump. 

“Someone who needs to relax.”

That hadn’t been in the puzzle, and you find Winston staring pointedly at you. “Sorry, I’m— I’m sorry.” _Relax. Relax. Relax._ You take a long pull of your drink.

“Did you father actually explain the rules of the Continental to you?” Winston asks, starting to refold the paper.

“He said to mind my manners. And not to kill anyone while on the grounds.”

“Quite right, however, those rules apply to _everyone_. No one will attack you without facing decidedly punitive measures. So,” He flattens the paper to a new crossword and pats the seat of the booth beside him. “Why don’t we try again? Together, this time.”

He’s being nice in the way of taming an animal, but you’d rather focus on a puzzle than let the room get the better of you. It’s becoming clear you could use some taming anyway. Winston lets you decide how close you sit to him, and keeps an arm resting behind you on the booth, the other hand scratching out answers in the crossword.

A waiter stops by and replaces your drink with a martini, the same as Winston’s. You like the feel of the glass stem in your hand, the top heavy weight of the drink. A whole jar of olives doesn’t sound bad, either.

Your vocabulary does you credit, although it’s entirely up to Winston to help with the movie references, books, the more popular things. You get _Edom_ out of _Biblical land, red in Hebrew_ and he sets down the pen to pick up his drink. “I really must know how you find yourself in possession of that knowledge and yet have completely missed the Matrix movie phenomenon. You aren’t _that_ young, I hope.”

“There are some gaps in my education.” You focus on your drink, repeat your father. It didn’t bother you, most of the time.

“Maybe you’ll find some time to catch up on the last twenty years of pop culture while you’re here,” Winston suggests, unfazed. He must run into weirder people than you all the time.

“That’d be nice.” You look again through the crowd to find the woman with the carefree laugh, now engaged with a man in conversation. They have their heads together and she smiles, making you nervous all over again. Being on the end of that much undivided attention…

“I believe those two are preparing to partner for a job together,” Winston leans in closer, voice low for your benefit. “The Continental is often a working vacation spot—perhaps that would interest you more?” 

Finally, you grasp at something familiar. “Booking jobs?” You’ll have to learn how to do that on your own, now.

“Mhm.”

“I’ve never done it myself.”

“Something tells me the logistics will pose you no problem.” Winston takes off his reading glasses, leans back against the booth. “Customer service, however…" 

You give him an anxious look and he chuckles, a shiver crawling over your shoulders involuntarily. “I’m afraid that won’t win you the attention you want.”

“Huh?”

He seems to be thinking, before settling into the subject. “To attract business, you must balance the amount of effort shown versus the impression of effortlessness. Cultivate it through your dress, your body language, how you wait for the world to approach you.”

You could wilt just hearing it. “That sounds very complicated.”

“What makes you stand out here, in the Lounge?” Winston gestures to the rest of the bar, and you latch onto it like you did the puzzle.

“I’m dressed wrong.”

“Ah,” He lifts a finger. “You are dressed for the field, my dear, an enterprising spirit never fully off duty. How do we improve the image without losing that spark?”

The alcohol must be going to your almost-empty stomach, you shake your head dumbly.

“Material.” He slides a hand over your forearm, making you aware of exactly how the fabric feels between your skin and his. “A softer weave, mohair or angora. It would set off the utility of your belt, and a closer cut of trousers wouldn’t hurt either.”

“Oh.”

“What suits do you own?”

You brighten at this. “I’ve got a few! My best is the standard, full coverage, poncho-cut. Originally it was woodland coloring, but—”

“Formal suits, dear, not ghillie.”

“… Then, none.” 

“You might consider investing in one. I know many fine tailors, and it would delight me to no end to put you through a bit of polishing.” It sounds too good to be true, but he maintains eye contact over the rim of his glass.

“I need that help,” you admit, thinking of his hand on your arm, how suddenly the fabric felt cheap and rough. Your boots on the carpet, out of place.

“Then allow me to correct your posture.” Winston smiles, his hand falling to your spine, chasing you up straight and then making delicate adjustments to your shoulders, as if he’d been thinking of what he’d do all along. “Slumping marks you as prey. We want a confident body and vulnerable face when fishing for business.”

You want to look at him, but his hand is under your chin trying different angles. “Vulnerable?”

“It’s your greatest asset—however did such an ingénue end up in the Continental’s Lounge? What skills are in their possession that they sit unafraid among killers, yet still so demure and waiting for me _personally_ to buy them a drink?”

“Is that really what I look like?”

“You will if you keep your shoulders back.”

Oops. You do as he says, Winston’s head cocking in another direction to look at his handiwork. “It all comes down to creating a narrative. Business is, at its heart, a seduction.”

You find yourself stumbling out of comparisons to lying in wait. Patience and discipline you understand, but… “Uh?”

“Not literally, of course,” Winston muses. “The last great seduction assassin was forcibly retired some years ago, and it’s rather an outmoded art in this day and age.”

“I—I think I’ll stick to sniping.”

“Wise.” He doesn’t push you back into position when you turn, instead smiling when you brave a glance his way. “One should always leave room between business and pleasure.”

That lodges in your guts like a hot knife, and you excuse yourself as another patron stops by to talk to Winston, murmuring a thank you and beating a hasty retreat. You take your glass back to the bar and wave at Addy, threading through the press of bodies to get to the door as fast as possible.

Business and pleasure. It pounds in your ears like rushing blood on the lonely elevator ride back to your room. There’s a covered tray waiting outside that you’re too hasty to be cautious about, grabbing it and getting into your room to lock it as fast as possible.

On the tray is an array of fruits, vegetables, thick slices of crusty bread, a fan of cold cuts, and you forget yourself, eating on the floor, licking your fingers, suddenly desperate to taste everything at once.

In the aftermath, you take off your boots, stretch out flat on the floor. The carpet smells clean and unfamiliar, and you run your hands over the texture of it, thinking. Six months. He had offered to… polish you. It couldn’t hurt. It’s your father’s money, not your own, and it was obvious to you now that there was a certain decorum and culture in the business that had never been explained to you.

The phone rings and it’s Charon, letting you know that the manager will provide a selection of local tailoring services for you in the morning, would you like it served with your breakfast?


	2. LYTHRACEAE

The first tailor you call is helpful and asks a lot of questions you don’t have the answers to, but you feel like you’ve handled it well until she confirms she’ll see you later today in the manager’s suite at the Continental, as previously arranged. You don’t know what to say other than thank you—  _ as previously arranged _ seems to be showing up more and more, as if Winston has anticipated so many of your decisions and paved the way ahead of you.

You can’t be anything but grateful, when it comes down to it. The kitchen staff seem to think it’s sweet of you to bring your dishes down to them, and load your pockets with more fruit before pointing you in the direction of the roof.

It’s a manicured garden and patio that you wouldn’t have thought existed on top of a building in New York, but the wind is at least sort of fresh, and you eat the fruit while you bask in the sun. Today feels more manageable already, and the anxiety and confusion of the last few days are starting to lighten. It leaves you feeling very reasonable and ready to tackle talking to Winston like an adult.

You find him deep in conversation with a man in a fine-looking linen suit, the two ensconced in a quiet corner of the lobby framed by large windows all lit up with sunlight. You wait as long as you have to, hands behind your back, until they’re done.

“Next time, come over,” Winston calls, shaking open the day’s newspaper. “Cassian’s a good man to know, and you really should develop some networking skills.”

You sit down without being asked, which you hope telegraphs how assertive you’re being today. “Thank you for the list of tailors. I called one this morning—”

“And they’re coming here.” Winston finishes, not asking. “Your father’s marker states you don’t leave the Continental and I have to insist on honoring it.”

You feel a prickle of frustration. “What if I swear I’ll always come back?”

“The chances you’ll simply vanish into the wilds of upstate New York and resurface in Siberia a decade later are simply too high.”

“I would promise!”

“And you would break it.” He finally looks directly at you, stern. “If you would like to stage an escape I can’t stop you, but I would remind you the Continental is literally booked with clientele who would happily accept a retrieval assignment.”

You stare at your hands clenched in your lap. Six months, every year. Half of the rest of your life.

Winston folds the paper aside, reaching out to rest his hand on yours. “Is it truly so awful to be stuck here with me?”

“It’s not you.” The thing you had loved about your life was your freedom, the wilderness, how there was only a mark and your skills and everything to overcome in between. It was simple. The final act of your father wasn’t about your safety or happiness, it was about extending the longevity of something he’d invested in.

Winston’s phone rings and he gives your hands a squeeze before pulling away to answer. Your only revenge is sliding the newspaper from him and solving as much of the crossword as you can before he shoos you off.

Getting up, you hear him pause the conversation and catch your eye. “Come up early, I’ve had some shopping done for you. Strictly prêt-à-porter, I promise.”

_ Ready-to-carry? _ You smile, cheered that he would meet you halfway and soften today’s alien experience with something you understood.

“I was really hoping you meant guns,” you admit, faced with an array of clothes not unlike the little banquet sent up to your room last night—mostly shades of blacks, grays, off-whites, and a more riotous rainbow of scarves and gloves in every color, even some hats.

“You don’t need help shopping for weaponry.” Winston scoffs, pouring you a glass of… scotch, or whiskey, or rum, there’s no label on the crystal bottle and you wouldn’t know how to identify it by taste. He looks pleased when you take a sip. “So, what catches your eye?”

Nothing, it just looks like clothes. You bite down on the response and instead try to focus. Winston is doing this for your benefit, and it means you owe him respect and effort.

The manager’s suite is wildly ornate, lots of dark wood finishes and enormous windows looking out over the city. The living room has a lot of couches, all currently employed in this task, and you have the impression of an enormous walk-in closet nearby, probably a bedroom too. Maybe just for the occasion, a full-length mirror is placed in front of one of the windows, showing the whole room back to you.

_ Material _ . You set your drink down and run your hands over the tops, feeling. There’s a black turtleneck hidden among some blouses that looks just like what you wore last night, but the texture couldn’t be farther. Luxurious, even. You hold it up for approval and Winston lifts his drink in a little toast.

“Very good. Now choose something on your own.”

After a lifetime of wearing what was brought for you, this seems like a test. Nothing here resembles the wrong-sized military surplus that your father had provided, and you don’t know what the right answers are supposed to be instead.

You can’t commit to a full shirt, let alone pants, but a scarf seems manageable. A smaller decision. There’s a pretty sand-colored one, threads of white whirling across it like a topographic map.

“Well, you’ll never be accused of being flashy.” Winston loops it around your neck without being asked. “Would you like to tag me in for some help?”

“Yes, please.” It’s hard not to sound eager, but Winston obviously has good taste, and there’s something undeniably comforting about letting him make decisions like this for you. You’d fight him tooth and nail on rifle specs, you think, but it feels good to be in his hands for this. Figuratively. Of course. He doesn’t go wild, choosing carefully for practical, comfortable items, often natural fibers. You wish more pieces came with pockets, but it seems churlish to complain.

Loaded with a few outfits, Winston exiles you to the bathroom to try them on, motioning for turns around when you emerge. It all fits well, and you try not to imagine him guessing your measurements. He isn’t shy about adjusting or showing you how to properly style something, and seeing yourself in the mirror almost becomes fun.

The tailor arrives as soon as you feel comfortable, knocking your anxiety back up to a ten—she’s very chic, a short haircut and a suit jacket with not much on underneath besides tattoos. Her name is Mona, and Winston goes to kiss her hand just in time for her to dump a leather satchel full of tailoring tools in his arms.

“If Winston is quite done playing dress up, we can get going.” Mona gestures at you, dragging a footstool out for you to step onto. “Down to your underthings, please.”

“Oh, I— I hadn’t—”

“You’ve nothing we haven’t seen before: chop chop.”

Resisting makes you more anxious than stripping, so you undress as directed. Mona makes a noise of disapproval behind you. “ _ Win _ ston.” You yelp as she snaps the worn elastic band of your underwear. “You say you’ve got it handled and then this poor thing stands here in those?”

“We hadn’t gotten to that just yet,” Winston replies, a touch irritated.

“Sorry, I—I don’t really…” You trail off, Mona lifting an eyebrow. There’s a scar through it that makes her look terribly handsome. “I was raised by wolves.”

Winston chuckles, but Mona doesn’t smile. “Clearly.”

She takes her job seriously, but Mona is very patient and answers your questions as thoroughly as you need it explained. There are a lot of measurements taken, comparisons of fabric, and Winston starts a fight over gussets that he loses. Watching yourself in the mirror is surreal, your worn undies in contrast to the lavish apartment.

There’s the beginnings of a suit pinned together from panels of fabric and soft pattern paper when Mona calls it quits. She packs her things while you and Winston collect the rest of the clothes, separated into what made the cut and what didn’t.

“I can begin work right away. We should have a fitting later this week.” Mona declares, writing in a planner. Winston hasn’t given your original clothes back, instead draping a dressing gown over your shoulders, a hand lingering there. You have the impression he’s going to throw your old things into an incinerator.

“Mona, might we request you bring some dress fabric samples as well, when you return?”

“A dress?” You balk, and Mona gives you a sharp look, shaking her pen at you.

“ _ Anyone _ can wear a dress. Don’t make that face.”

“Just for fun.” Winston’s hand slides to your lower back, his eyebrows doing the thing where you can’t be mad at him.

“And I tell you I will  _ not _ show as much as a shred if you present them to me in that underwear again.”

“Noted, Mona, noted.”

When Mona leaves, the suite seems quieter. Winston turns on a few lights and you look at your silhouette reflected in the windows, a huge figure amid the New York skyline.

“I can make no excuses as to why I took this liberty, other than the pursuit of a thorough job.” Winston retrieves a long, flat box from the bedroom, and your face heats up as it’s opened, revealing a display of silky, comfortably-cut underthings on a bed of tissue paper. “I can only beg you to forgive the impropriety.”

He says it almost like a joke, certain you aren’t upset. And you aren’t. “How did you know my size?” The long muscles in your legs feel weak as you touch a pair of underwear.

“Eyeballed it.” He hands you the box. “Would you mind checking to see if I was correct?”

“No, I… I’ll do that.” You accept the box, setting it aside to select a pair of underwear. Winston steps away to pour himself another drink, and your heart pounds as you do something stupid. Reaching under the hem of the robe, you slip your old underwear off, stepping into the new pair gingerly.

They fit, of course. You’ve never worn anything softer, so light and smooth. You want to know how they look, and in a moment of insanity, you want Winston to see, too.

“Nightcap?” Winston asks, all at once dislodging your thoughts and creating new ones, specifically wondering how it would feel to press the slick fabric hard against your skin.

“Oh, no, thank you. They fit well.”

“My dear, think nothing of it.” He pauses to pick up an errant piece from the floor. “My first life was as a tailor’s apprentice. Mona quite rightfully accused me of playing dress up with you.”

“I like it.” You smile when he looks a little surprised. “You’ve got wonderful taste. I feel safe with you.” The last bit spilled out of nowhere, and you’re glad you declined another drink.

“You flatter an old man.”

“You’re always flattering me.”

Winston considers you for a moment, as if wondering what exactly it is you’re doing—you don’t know, either—when there’s a soft knock at the door. “Ah, the waitstaff—I’ve asked them to take your things to your room. Shall we call it an evening?”

“Oh! Yes, that’s nice of you, I could have carried it.”

“I’m afraid if you keep tipping them as you have been, they’ll only be more helpful.”

He walks you to the door as the staff ferry out boxes and bags, and you find yourself stopping just outside the threshold, certain you’re forgetting something. If he notices, Winston doesn’t remark on it, merely giving you a mild look and a polite nod. “Until next time, then.”

“Good night, Winston.” Before the door full closes, he turns and you catch the color of your old underwear just peeking out of his coat pocket.

There’s a gap of only a few days that you spend mostly organizing the new wardrobe and trying to get out of your room more. Addy always has a compliment for your new clothes, but you can’t yet bring yourself to spend much time in the Lounge. 

As soon as Mona arrives, she has you back in underwear, offering many compliments for your new pair. Back in the familiar warmth of Winston’s suite, she gets to work, her tone focused but a little conspiratorial: Winston himself is absent, presumably called away on Continental business.

“Put these stockings on before we begin with the petticoats,” Mona orders, scowling at your response. “You can hide all sorts of tools in garter belts, it is  _ functional _ .”

Well, if they were tactical stockings, that was alright.

Mona explains her work to you as she goes, most of it sailing over your head, but you appreciate her keeping you involved. The bust line of the bodice comes up to just underneath your arms and you keep hoping she’ll add sleeves or straps, but it looks like a lost cause.

“How does it feel?” She steps back.

“A little heavy.”

“Walk in it.” She motions you off the fitting stool and you manage not to trip, although you find yourself instinctively carrying the front hem like a Disney princess. The petticoats have compiled into a filmy mass of soft rustling, leaving the bodice drawn tight around your upper body.

“Very classic,” Mona muses. “Very young royal.”

It barely looks like you in the mirror, but it doesn’t feel bad. Simply different, like a dream. A fairytale.

“Stay here, I left fabric bolts downstairs. Try,” Mona sighs, pausing as she heads out the door. “Not to sit down in it yet.”

She didn’t say anything about swishing, so left to your own devices you experiment with how the skirts move. You’ve never worn anything even remotely like this, and it feels good not to be anxious about it.

The door opens and you straight up, standing proper again and surprised Mona was so fast running down the lobby again, but instead it’s Winston who appears behind you in the mirror.

The two of you stare at each other before Winston tells the other end of the phone that he’ll call them back, hanging up and setting it down on the coffee table as he approaches. You try not to smile, writing it off as professional courtesy and not real distraction.

“Like you said,” you say, reminded by his appearance in the mirror that you’re only in the beginnings of a dress. “It’s—it’s just for fun.”

“Do you like it?” Winston is careful not to step on anything as he comes to stand just behind you, checking the fit of the bodice around your waist. Professional courtesy is spiraling farther out of reach, and you worry he can hear your thoughts at this range. 

“Yes.” You will yourself not to drift back against him, eyes fixed on him in the mirror. “Do you?”

“Yeah.” His arms drift around you to smooth the front of the skirts. “I take it, then, Mona approved of your underthings.”

Winston’s breath slides past your ear, down your neck. “Show me.”

Your heart pounds and you gather the skirts at your front, lifting and pulling and holding. At the first sign of stockings Winston’s hands settled at your waist squeezed, palms pressed flat against the laces and boning.

There’s enough fabric that you’ve gathered as much as you can and it doesn’t quite reveal your underwear to the mirror, and Winston helps you hold it with one hand, the other sliding from your thighs,  _ up _ —

You let your head drop to rest against his shoulder, Winston making a pleased noise deep in his throat as his fingertips brush your underwear, your bodies pressing closer together as he cups you in his hand. The silk is soft and it feels like he’s admiring the shape of you beneath it.

“Winston—” You want to tell him how much you want this, encourage him, but you don’t know where to start. His heavy-lidded eyes lock with yours as he finally slips a finger between the fabric and your skin, just beginning to use the pads of his fingers to map you.

There’s a bang at the door before the handle rattles loudly, and you both snatch away at once, smoothing your skirts down as Mona shoves her way in, bolts of fabric under each arm.

“ _ Win _ ston. You agreed to leave us in peace today.”

“My deepest apologies, Mona, I merely stopped by to retrieve my phone. And here it is, and here I go.”

“Yes, shoo.”

“Absolutely stunning work so far, by the way.” He stops on his way out, still visible to you in the mirror. Mona rolls her eyes as he kisses his fingers like a chef, returning just the tip of one to his mouth to taste you on it. 


	3. PUNICA

You think about it, and eventually ask Mona to prioritize the dress over the suit. You’re here for six months, it’s not as if you can really make headway on any assignments, so the suit is less pressing. The dress has become… important.

It comes to be a symbol of letting yourself grow in ways you hadn’t had the space or opportunity before. Developing a palette, learning to set aside anxieties in favor of new experiences. You want to be dolled up for Winston, deliver yourself like a gift.

The wait is longer than expected: he takes the rest of the day and the following to entertain the upcoming manager of the Helsinki Continental, presumably showing him how it’s done. You enjoy the nightly gifts of treats sent to your room and spend some time sunning up on the roof, or else getting underfoot with Charon trying to stay busy.

Finally, the dress is finished, Winston’s business is over, and you should have cold feet. Instead, they’re a good temperature, the shoes that go with the dress being closer to ballet slippers than anything fancy.

The dress is voluminous, a pretty champagne color, the bodice’s end into the skirts marked by a slender chain of garnets, the colors going nicely with the first scarf you had picked out. The stockings match it all, and Mona presents you with the final touch: long, beautiful gloves that end above your elbow.

Addy does a double-take when you arrive at the Lounge, and you draw a few glances from the other patrons. When it gets bad, you think of yourself as showing off Mona’s work, and find it easier to keep your chin up. Addy grins, like she can see your thought process. “Talk about a transformation! Looks like the Continental life agrees with you.”

“Thanks. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m glad I’m doing it.”

“Hey, cheers to that. Get comfy, I’ll send drinks over.”

You settle down at Winston’s booth, and when you next look up a man you’ve never seen before in your life is approaching, even sitting down in Winston’s spot. The horse kick of fear isn’t there, and you feel oddly safe, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he’s evicted from the booth.

The Frenchman is trying doggedly to engage you in a philosophical debate or something—you derail him by tossing back your martini like a shot, finding it much less intimidating than all the darker whiskeys you’ve been given. You wait him out patiently until Winston arrives, clearing his throat and sending the Frenchman slinking off faster than dignified.

“Whatever were you discussing with  _ monsieur? _ ” Winston asks, setting his newspaper down and joining you in the booth.

“I have no idea.” You prop your chin up on your hand, feeling silly and happy to see him. “I’m afraid my thoughts were elsewhere.”

“I’ll endeavor to hold your attention then, shall I?” Winston takes your hand, briefly touches your knuckles to his lips.

Free of some of the anxiety fugue that had first followed you to the Lounge, you find yourself able to enjoy it more, appreciating the band—which, you notice, is different than the last one you’d seen. Winston answers your questions about how he selects bands or performers, and seems pleased that you’ve taken an interest.

You’re perhaps a little overdressed for the Lounge, but it provokes a strange, good feeling to be sitting with Winston like this, to be dressed for him and sitting with him at the manager’s table. Almost like you belong to him or with him, or that you’re a prize somehow. A few people approach to speak to him and are very polite to you, and it’s fun to see Winston handle the manager’s duty.

You aren’t bored, but you play with the olives in your own martini. “There really is a lot of business that goes on here.”

“All except the most obvious kind.” Winston blinks at you slowly like a big cat, seemingly reading something in your face. “Can I take it your time at the Continental is feeling less like a prison?”

“It helps that management has been so nice.” You smile, although it turns thoughtful and Winston reaches for your hand. He doesn’t say anything, just runs his thumb over your knuckles until you’re ready to say it. “Even if… it was meant as a kind of storage, his intent doesn’t matter so much. I like the Continental. I like knowing I—I can come back to it.”

He squeezes your hand. “The Continental is sacred ground, forever a sanctuary to you. Wherever your adventures take you, here I’ll be.”

“But… you’re not done with me yet, are you?” Feeling bold and heady with the rich affection in his voice, you draw his hand under the table, pulling a skirt up and placing his hand on your knee.

Winston’s hand is warm and steady, and he shifts closer to reach around the inside of your leg, fingers digging into the soft spot at the back of your knee. “Not by a long shot.”

“When is your shift over?” You lean closer, wishing his hand would go higher.

He smiles over the last of his drink. “I’m the manager, darling.”

You may have dressed up, but you still have a sniper’s patience on the elevator ride, the walk to his suite. You’ll wait as long as you have to, but Winston has other plans as soon as the door shuts, locking it behind him.

He leaves a hand on the small of your back, close enough to kiss but decidedly not, staying there intense and close. “Allow me a moment? I’d like to make sure we aren’t interrupted. Again.”

“Sure.” You know where the bedroom is, and take your time heading that way as Winston pours himself a drink and dials down to the lobby. Your silhouette in the fitting mirror still looks like a dream, and you make the mistake of imagining Winston under all the skirts.

“Remove nothing,” he calls, belatedly. “That’s my job.”

You bend the directions and take your slippers off, settling down on his bed. The coverlet must be down and you sink in it, skirts frothing up. There are certain merits to getting started without him that you’re considering when Winston returns, shoes off and armed with scotch.

He’s a long time just looking at you, dreamy and comfortable and ready on his bed. With a gesture, he calls you to lean up a bit closer, and takes his time undoing your scarf, undoing the loose knot and letting the soft fabric drag against your skin, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Stockings or gloves first?” Winston asks, setting the scarf aside and shrugging off his jacket, hanging it over the back of a nearby chair.

“Stockings, please.”

“Gloves it is.”

He eases them off a finger at a time, loosening each until he can draw the glove off in one slow pull, supporting your arm with his hand, kissing the soft undersides of your wrists as they’re revealed.

You love the way Winston’s eyes drift shut when his lips touch your skin, and how when they open again he’s always looking right at you, watching your face for what excites and overwhelms you.

Winston finishes the gloves and gets settled just between your legs, hands reaching down to touch your ankles. “I think I’ve changed my mind. I quite prefer the stockings on.”

You sense an opportunity and wiggle in protest, rubbing your calves against the sides of his waistcoat where you can. “They’re so slippery. I can’t get any purchase like this.”

“I’m aware. Indulge me in keeping you helpless for the moment.”

Your heart doesn’t stop, but it jumps as if it had to start again. “Helpless?”

“Oh, yes.” He says it nonchalantly, even as he lifts your skirts, hands smoothing higher and higher up your legs. “I’ll never tire of the juxtaposition between… trained killer, and, ah…”

Winston trails off, finally past the tops of your stockings and revealing you naked and aching for him in a nest of silks and lace among the petticoats.

You gasp in a breath as he settles long against you, hand sliding and staying between your legs as he comes down for a kiss—feels like letting out a breath you’ve held for days. Winston doesn’t rush the kiss, letting you adjust and reciprocate before he strokes you and waits for your mouth to open before deepening the kiss.

“Running around my hotel,” he breathes, dark and hot against your neck as you begin to pant. “ _ Sans _ knickers?”

Your knees start to drift shut and he elbows them apart to keep you open for him, and you run your hands from his jaw up to his hairline, tangling there. “Are— are you mad?"

“Furious.” Winston’s hand works against you,  _ into _ you in earnest, and you moan feeling him shift more of his weight onto you, fighting the tides of your skirts.

When he has your hips rolling at his pace, chasing the curl of his fingers, Winston stops, the both of you breathing hard as he sits back and admires his handiwork. You lift your hips to see if he can be tempted to continue, but he gives you a look and just continues to unbutton his waistcoat. “Can you reach the nightstand?”

It takes some stretching, but you can fish out lube, a string of condoms, finding what you can only guess is a vibrator alongside them in the drawer that you hold up in a question.

“We’ve got six months, dearest, there’s no rush.”

“That’s true…”

“Although I do plan on putting you through your paces manually before I allow you access to the full collection.” He opens the condom with his teeth and you’re sure it was to show off. “I’m afraid I’ve dreamed up a rigorous curriculum for you.”

“You—you’ve thought about…?” You had hoped talking would keep your voice steady, but it shakes all over as Winston finishes with the condom, applying more lube. You hate that you couldn’t phrase it any other way, it sounds so naïve, but it draws Winston’s gaze to yours sharply, a patient hunger in his dark eyes, the set of his mouth.

“I thought I made that rather obvious,” he admits, holding you close and steady as he presses the head of his cock into you, every inch drawing another noise out of you. “When I stole your underwear.”

He rocks into you, settled at last up to the hilt and you arch underneath him, pinned and begging for him to move, please, Winston,  _ please _ move, until he does. Your dress rustles and the bed is too expensive to creak and it leaves you making the most noise, but Winston slows to a stop if you try to quiet yourself. You love seeing the collar of his shirt open, how your hands can find his skin, you love the one errant curl of hair hanging over his forehead as he fucks you, you love being under him, his, helpless—

Toes curling, you hitch against him, feeling the beginnings of an inevitable pull inside you, your chest and ribs straining against the bodice. “Winston? Will you—oh—”

“Ask me, darling,” Winston’s back curves, your chin hooking over his shoulder as he ruts into you, voice hot against your temple. “Be good and ask.”

“On me?” You only have a moment to beg before your voice goes. “Finish on me?”

Winston swears in his rough posh voice, and reaches between what little space there is left between your bodies to bring you home, staying inside you as long as he can bear as you clench and ride out the orgasm, almost sobbing from relief and desperation. Your whole body jerks when he pulls out, and startles again when he slips fingers back into you, other hand peeling off the condom. The rougher thrust of his fingers shoves you right back over the edge one more time and you hold his hand fast against you and grind while he comes on the bodice, on your chest and neck.

He stops moving before you do, slowing and relaxing into the bed beside you, leaving his fingers inside you to feel your body still humming and pulsing for him.

You swab some of his come off your collarbones to taste, pleased that it’s his and it’s on you, and that you can feel him watching you, subtle adjustments to your bodies on the bed letting him stroke your hair. Watching as you suck a fingertip more fully into your mouth, Winston heaves a sigh. “What  _ have _ I gotten myself into?”

Wriggling a little, you press your nose and mouth into his hairline, smelling his cologne and sweat. “Did you mean it?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About… a curriculum? A next time?”

“Dear, you’ve got me half a year for the rest of my years,” he says, very seriously, a hand coming up to cradle your cheek. “Which will be twice as few if you don’t have mercy on me.”

“Well,  _ you _ said it,” You wedge up close under his chin, Winston fishing a thoroughly-rumpled handkerchief out of his pocket and finishing cleaning you up. “I need a lot of polish.”

Winston just makes a  _ hmm _ noise, not denying it, a hand resting on the stiff curve of your bodice. You can practically feel him thinking at this range, maybe about the differences between you and whether or not this is appropriate, and part of you does hope there’s a conversation later about what this is, what it’ll be in the future, if anything.

For right now, you want to rest until you can rally enough to get out of the dress, maybe see what the shower is like in the manager’s suite, spend the night if he doesn’t mind.

“You’ve gone quiet.” Winston’s fingers trail up your arm to your bare shoulder, less suggestive and more inquisitive.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“That it would be nice to wake up here in the morning.” You shift around, rolling on top of him and trying to keep your hands off his face, handsome and dramatic at this close range. “It wouldn’t break my heart if I can’t, but I’d like it.”

Maybe the way you’ve phrased it puts him at ease, but Winston smiles and holds your chin in his hand, which still smells pleasantly like you. “How could I ever deny you anything when you’re so sensible about it?”

“Does that mean I can?”

“A resonant yes, you scandal.” Winston leans up, kissing and nibbling at your neck as he rolls you over in the enormous bed and you laugh, enjoying his weight between your legs and the affection in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> If you want to watch me lose my marbles in real time I'm on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/roughmagik)


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